


Wolf at Your Door

by MoonShoesReyes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:39:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonShoesReyes/pseuds/MoonShoesReyes
Summary: Arya reacquaints herself after the Long Night.





	Wolf at Your Door

**Author's Note:**

> Just a lil boi because I felt like it. also everyone go listen to For the Throne which is music inspired by the show bc i cant stop listening to it.
> 
> Follow my new GoT tumblr and freak out about shit with me!! Also throw me prompts!! Arya-of-house-stank.tumblr.com

            Arya Stark’s knees burned as they hit the ice below her. Her face was slick with blood and sweat. Her neck seared from the memory of the grasp that it had been held in. Her hands were clawed at by the shards of ice as they braced her impact to the ground. She was keenly aware of everything immediately around her, from Bran’s even breathing, to the sound of shards of ice from the White Walkers falling, to the thick snow that coated the Godswood.

            Despite this unusual feeling of being completely present in her body, that sensation was only physical. Arya felt removed from herself, like a thick film covered any part of her that could _feel._

            Arya remained on her hands and knees, panting, as she all at once felt everything and nothing. The sheer magnitude of what she had done threatened to overwhelm her at any moment. She hadn’t felt this close to panic since her days as a blind beggar in Braavos. And so Arya used a method from when she had been Blind Beth; she took count of what she was aware of with each of her senses. She could see light from the fires, even through her tightly closed eyes. She could hear each ragged breath she took. The smell of death and blood and shit almost pushed her over the edge, but she instead chose to focus on the scent of fresh snow around her. She tasted blood and ash. And she could feel the cold, melting ice beneath her fingers.

            Arya counted her breaths until she felt human again, until she felt as though she could stand up and face the world.

            As if he knew that she was ready, and, knowing Bran, he might have, her brother finally said “you’ve killed the Night King. The long night is over.”

            Arya finally opened her eyes, and sought Bran’s out. She found her brother already staring at her, in that mildly curious and endlessly infuriating empty gaze of his.

            Desperate for something, be it human connection, or distance from the shards of her victim below her, Arya lifted herself off her hands. She remained on her knees, and shuffled to her brother.

            “Bran,” she started, but found she knew not what to say. Instead, she just looked into his eyes, hungrily searching for something, some remnant of the brother she knew.

            “Did you know?” Arya found her voice was raspy, sore. She grabbed his knee, knowing he couldn't feel it, never breaking eye contact. She was begging with her eyes, more vulnerable than she had been since before Braavos, as she asked him, "why me?"

            Before she could get an answer, she heard a broken call from the other side of the Godswood.

            “BRAN!?” Jon’s voice cried, desperation clear. And still, she did not look away from her younger brother.

            “Bran?! Theon!?” Jon was closer now, but something in Bran’s eyes, some knowing look prevented her from looking away, no matter how much she wanted to call to her brother that she was there, and she was alive.

            Finally, Bran broke the eye contact. He looked towards the entry of the Godswood just as Jon became visible. Arya took no more time looking at her youngest brother, instead turning her head slightly towards her oldest. At the sight of the immense relief and confusion on Jon’s scarred face, a wash of bone-deep fatigue suddenly hit Arya.

            Jon opened his mouth once, then another time, but no words came out.

            “Theon is dead. He died bravely. He was at peace.” Bran showed no emotion for the man who had given their life for his own.

            Looking to the bodies littering the floor, Jon found Theon’s among them. Arya hadn't realized that he had died. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him since he arrived. She didn’t know what she would have said – part of her liked to believe that she would have forgiven him for the his betrayal of her family. But a bigger part of her knew that forgiveness was no longer in her nature, and that, when she looked at him, she only would have seen Greywind’s head, haphazardly and carelessly thrown atop her brothers mutilated body.

            And yet, she still mourned. She mourned with a part of her she didn’t know she still had. A part that felt so distant, but so, very real.

            Jon looked away from Theon, his hand pinching his brow and sorrow in his eyes. He swiftly crossed to where Arya and Bran sat, falling to his knees and using one arm to pull each of his siblings to him. Arya let herself be pulled in, not really feeling anything. Jon took one deep, sharp breath in, before releasing both Arya and Bran.

            “What happened?” Jon’s eyes shifted between Arya and Bran initially, before settling on Bran.

            “The Night King is dead. The long night is over.” Bran just repeated his words from before.

            “Yes, but how? Who helped you? Who swung the sword?” A muted sense of outrage swept over Arya, offended at her closest brother’s belief that she needed someone to protect her. So she corrected him.

            “It wasn’t a sword, it was a dagger. This dagger,” she presented the catspaw dagger, “my dagger.”

            “Arya, you –“ Jon trailed off, the idea of his younger sister killing anyone, let alone the Night King, too much for him to handle.

            “Arya fulfilled her destiny. She killed the Night King. She saved your life.”

            Jon turned to Arya, the disbelief fading from his eyes, pride shining through instead. “She didn’t just save me, Bran. She saved everyone. She saved Winterfell. She saved the North. She saved Westeros.” Jon beamed at her, his hand clasping her shoulder. “How did you do it, Arya? How in the Seven Hells did you kill him?”

            Arya tried desperately to find some part of her that could return Jon’s smile, that could answer and laugh and celebrate with him. She came up empty. “Valar Morghulis. All men must die, Jon, even the Night King.”

            The smile fell from Jon’s face, even if just a little. Silent, proud tears shone in his eyes. “Arya,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

            For some reason, that was when a smile found its way to her, but her emotions hadn’t caught up yet. She felt the prick of tears in her eyes. “I did what you taught me. I stuck him with the pointy end.”

            And Jon laughed. He sat back, so he was sitting on the ground with Arya, instead of on his knees before her. And her brother’s laugh, boisterous and carefree, snapped everything into place. Suddenly she could feel everything that had been so distant before. And she laughed too, nowhere near as big and loud as Jon, but her own, small laugh, not much, but more than she had since she had left for Braavos.

            “Jon?! Bran?!” Arya and her brothers looked towards the entrance of the Godswood, where there were a few people rushing towards them, but they all stopped a few yards away. But Arya paid them no mind. Her eyes were on Sansa, who ran to her siblings, silent tears falling. Her sister fell to her knees, no regard for her dress, taking a place between Jon and Arya. She took them her arms, relief etched into her face.

            “Are you alright? When I didn’t see you in the Courtyard I couldn’t help but think –”

            “We’re alright, Sansa,” Jon answered, his hand not leaving Sansa’s shoulder. “We should go, join everyone. Be the Starks.”

            “Everyone can wait,” Sansa snapped, not unkindly, “just give us a moment to be a family, first.”

            Arya just sat back as her brother and sister spoke about their experiences. This was her family. Her littlest brother, never as good a shot as her, was sitting to her left, as far away as he might be. Sansa, who she had detested with what she had believed to be a ferocity never to be beaten, whom she now loved and admired in equal ferocity and measure, was to her right.  And her brother, her odd, mopey big brother, who she adored more than anything in this world or the next, was sitting across from her. This was the family she had thought she had lost forever, reunited.

            But it wasn’t all of her family.

            Arya stood, slow and careful. She glanced at Bran, who absently nodded towards the crowd that had gathered, but remained at a distance to give the siblings privacy. Arya limped towards them slowly.

            Amongst the many people, there were only a few that Arya knew. The Dragon Queen stood near the front of the crowd, looking eager to go to Jon, but was seemingly stopped by Tyrion Lannister. The Imp looked at the siblings with something resembling respect, and even wistfulness. The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, which Tyrion patted eagerly. Brienne of Tarth was next to Jaime, but she seemed the closest to emotions that Arya had ever seen her, looking at the lost Starks, together again. Podrick Payne was slightly behind Brienne, looking dazed and just happy to be alive. The Hound stood towards the back, face nearly inscrutable, but with something that looked dangerously like relief in his eyes.

            “MY LITTLE CROW!” bellowed through the quiet Godswood, startling everyone slightly.

            Jon turned around, searching, when Tormund, the Wildling that Jon had spoken of briefly, broke through the gathered crowd.

            Jon had just started to stand, but Tormund did not hesitate. He instead tackled Jon, directing him safely away from Sansa and Bran and into a snow bank.

            But Arya saw none of this. Her eyes were on the man who stood towards the back of the crowd, where Tormund had just come through.

            Gendry was bloody, his dragon glass hammer hanging limply from his hand, but he dropped it when his eyes met Arya’s.

            The two of them began to walk to each other slowly. Each raked their eyes over the other, looking for injuries or wounds. They stopped about a foot apart.

            “Hi,” Arya said, weakly, unaware of the world around her.

            “Arya, I –” Gendry began, so much like the previous night, before Jon interrupted him.

            Jon’s hand grabbed Arya’s shoulder, and she looked at her brother, ready to be irritated, but found that she couldn’t be when she saw the look of utter joy and delight and pride on Jon’s face.

            “I didn’t kill the Night King.” Jon announced. Tormund had taken up Jon’s other side, and had his arm wrapped around his shoulders. Sansa had walked towards the group, and Brienne left Jaime’s side to stand behind her lady.

            Jaime had followed Brienne, and the pair flanked Sansa, although Arya would bet it had more to do with the Lady Knight than the Lady of Winterfell.

            “What are you saying, Little Crow? If you didn’t kill the Night King, then who did?” Tormund asked, confused.

            “Arya fucking Stark,” The Hound realized out loud, before Jon could answer. The gathered people turned to look at him, as he shook his head in disbelief and something that looked suspiciously like pride.

            “That’s right. Arya killed the Night King. She saved us all.” Jon declared. And, suddenly, every set of eyes were on her. Arya shrunk into herself for a moment, so used to being No One, unseen unless she wanted to be seen, before drawing upon her training. She squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze, meeting every pair of surprised eyes.

            And then she met Gendry’s eyes, and they held no surprise. Just awe, and something Arya feared looked like reverence.

            “Tonight, we will eat in celebration! The North will raise their glasses to Arya Stark, the savior of Westeros!” Sansa declared.

 

~~~~~~

 

            “TO ARYA STARK!” Boomed what felt like the whole of Westeros, and maybe some of Braavos, too.

            Arya sat at the head table in the main hall. She was directly center, Jon to her left, and Sansa to her right. Bran was besides Sansa, and Daenerys was next to Jon.

            The absurdity of the fact that they were celebrating Arya in the place that she had slit Littlefinger’s throat just weeks before, did not escape the guest of honor. The blood stain was still there, if you looked closely. No one had cared enough to thoroughly clean it, in light of what was to come.

             The revelry had been happening for about twenty minutes at this point, and Arya was profoundly bored.

            Sansa leaned to Arya’s ear, and Arya readied herself to be chastised for not playing her part. Instead, Sansa just said “go.”

            Arya pulled back confused.

            “Go,” Sansa repeated. “I know you hate this sort of thing – you always have. It might be in your honor, but it’s not _for_ you. It’s for them,” Sansa nodded at the crowd. “They deserve it, after the fight. But you deserve a night you enjoy as well.”

            Arya smiled gratefully. Her sister never ceased to surprise her, and Arya never stopped being shocked at their newfound relationship.

            As Arya was about to pass her sister, Sansa grabbed her forearm. Arya dipped her ear to Sansa instinctively.

            “He’s in the forge,” Sansa whispered.

            Arya’s head snapped back, incredulous.

            Sansa just winked, and nodded to the door.

            Arya decided to question her sister later, and went to find her blacksmith.

 

~~~~~~

 

            The sound of metal against metal sang through the quiet night as Arya approached the forge. She found Gendry quickly, as he was the only one still working instead of celebrating.

            Arya allowed herself a moment to appreciate the view of Gendry.

            After a minute, she finally announced herself, “I’m going to need a new weapon.”

            Gendry started, and whipped his head around to look at Arya. And then he just stared at her. He stared long enough that Arya began to squirm, at least internally. He stared long enough that Arya finally snapped “what, Gendry!?”

            His eyes met hers almost apologetically, as though he hadn’t seen much more of her the night before. “I’m sorry, milady, I’m just…” he took a moment, “I’m really glad your alive.”

            “It takes more to kill me than an army of the undead. And please, aren’t we past the milady bit?” Arya said, but she smiled.

            “I don’t think we will ever be past milady, Milady.” Gendry smiled back at her, but there was something else there, trepidation.

            So Arya took the lead, as she had the night before. “Gendry. I asked you to bed me the night before we thought we were going to die. And now we are not dead. And I regret nothing, and I did enjoy myself, but if you wish to stop, or if you regret anything, I understand.”

            “No, Arya, no!” He insisted, panicked.

           Arya relaxed at his response. “Are you sure,” she teased, “because I have heard that Podrick is—”

            Gendry cut her off, surging towards her with a kiss.

            It started out quick and passionate, just like the night before, but it shifted. It slowed, and they basked in it. Because they could bask in it. They had the time to do whatever they were doing with each other, and to do it right.

            But Arya had to know something first. She pulled away from him a few minutes later.

            “I’m sorry,” Gendry didn’t even give her time to breathe before he was apologizing, “I thought that’s what you wanted! I’m just, it seemed like you wanted to continue… what is that look?”

            Arya was sure she looked baffled. She was baffled.

            “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

            Gendry half laughed, “what?”

            “Aren’t you afraid of me? I killed the Night King, I have ended houses and assassins. I’m not who I used to be. How are you not terrified of me? Everyone else is.”

            Gendry led Arya to a bench in the forge, and took a seat beside her.

            “You are terrifying, Arya Stark, I’ll give you that. But you don’t terrify me.” Gendry answered, softly.

            “Yea, well, you terrify me.” Arya spoke before she could stop herself.

            “I – how?”

            Arya groaned, shifting in her seat, uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Gendry. But you…. Make me feel things. You make me feel things that I have fought and ran and protected myself from. Because the last time I really felt things, I lost everyone. Mycah. Syrio. My mother and father. Robb. Rickon. You. And I never stopped caring for Jon, because I never lost him. But I can’t start caring about you, not again. Because I _did_ lose you, and I don’t know if I can do it again, because…”

            “Because what? Talk to me ‘Arry.”

            Arya steadied herself. “Because if I lose another person I care about, if I lose you, or Jon, or Sansa, or Bran, there is nothing that anyone will be able to do to save me. I will be gone. Completely and irrevocably broken. All I will be is no one.”

            And there it was. Why Arya couldn’t afford to care about Gendry, about anyone new. The two remained silent for a moment.

            “You were never no one.” Gendry finally murmured.

            “You were never no one. You’re not no one. You never could be no one.” Gendry got off the bench, instead squatting in front of Arya, so they were eye to eye. “You are Arya Stark. Daughter of Ned and Catelyn. Sister of Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon. Sister of Jon Snow, no matter that he’s a bastard, because you don’t care about that. You are Arya Stark. A faceless man with a name. You are strong and fearless and terrifying. No one can choose or dictate who you are besides you. You’re a wolf. You’re Arya stark of Winterfell, and you always will be, no matter what happens. And you’re my family, Arya Stark. And you can’t forget that, no matter what the future holds.”

            Arya doesn’t hesitate before taking his face in her hands and kissing him. They move faster now, shedding clothes in their eagerness. They only stop briefly, when Arya pulls her lips away and their foreheads touch, and she quietly says “thank you.”


End file.
